


anesthesia

by ivelostmyspectacles



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Bad Matchmaking, Blood and Injury, Coping, Crying, Drabble Collection, Drugged Jon, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Tag, Established Relationship, First Kiss, Gen or Pre-Slash, Gun Violence, Gunshot Wounds, Holding Hands, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sickfic, Sleeping Together, Spoilers, Stitches
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2020-11-24 03:49:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 11,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20901176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivelostmyspectacles/pseuds/ivelostmyspectacles
Summary: Stand alone drabbles filling Whumptober prompts for Jon & Martin! Some gen, some established. See individual chapters for warnings.day twenty-six: abandonedBecause, whatever the reason, Jon haddone it.Forhim.So, he won’t abandon him now.





	1. shaky hands

It isn’t fair how his hands betray him. Peter watches off to the side and Martin’s goddamn hands are shaking. Now that everything’s come to a head, as his not quite death waits him on the other side of this, and he’s doing it to save Jon and the rest of them. Of _ course _ his hands start shaking _ now. _

It’s not fair.

“Martin,” Peter says, urging and chastising in one. He sounds amused, and exasperated, and it burns beneath Martin’s skin, disappointment and anger and terror he’s been oh so carefully keeping tucked away in his desire to do _ this. _ Well, here he is! And it sucks! But he’ll _ do _ it!

“Yes, I know,” he snaps. Wills his hands to stop trembling as he steps forward. “You could actually _ help, _ you know.”

“Oh, I think I’ll leave that to you. I’ve done the heavy lifting to get us here, after all.”

“No, you haven’t.” Bitterness will freeze him to the spot if he lets it. He can’t let it.

“Well, I got us the map,” Peter says, offhand, and Martin tries to disregard him as much as he has been these past few months. 

Focus on what’s important. That’s what he has to do.

When Jon comes charging in, Martin nearly cries.

Nearly cries from the terror of being the one chosen for this, nearly cries because Jon’s stupid enough to run into danger, actually tears up because Jon’s stupid enough to run into danger for _ him– _

Something goes wrong. He doesn’t know. Peter is _ angry _ and Jon is… Jon…… and Martin feels the tears fall and something being torn from him. He thinks it’s The Lonely, he thinks he’s being wrenched free from it, because when he opens his eyes, he’s on the ground and Peter is gone and Martin _ feels _ so, so much that he wants to curl into a ball and cry for the first time in _ God _ knows how long– since– since his mother died, maybe–

Jon crashes to his knees next to him, and Martin goes willingly into his arms.

Jon holds his shaking hands, and tells him The Lonely won’t get him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey all! a bit late to start but I'll be doing [whumptober ](https://whumptober2019.tumblr.com/post/187785964678/whumptober2019-october-approaches-and-so-does)for Jon and Martin! all will be stand-alone, some will be gen, some will be established. given the nature of the prompts, there will be sensitive content (which may include character death if the prompts so take me) my warning will stay as choose not to use warnings but will mention potential triggers in chapters if necessary! rating may increase
> 
> who doesn't want some good ol whumpy jm!! not like canon is hurting us enough! phew


	2. explosion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [see end notes for content warnings!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20901176/chapters/49723037#chapter_2_endnotes)

“… run.”

The word sticks in his throat. He can barely force himself to say it. He already knows– 

Martin does, too. He smiles, tired and humorless. “It’s too late.”

Jon… can’t accept that. He knows he has to. But he can’t accept that. _ He’s _ the one who’s supposed to die, _ he’s _ the one who has to destroy all of this around him, he knows it’ll just be a matter of finding a new Archivist eventually but this will make a dent, because it’s power too strong for any of the Entities to ever find their way to– but it’s just _ him. _ Not Martin. Never Martin. He refuses to lose another person. He refuses to lose the only person he–

“Martin, _ go.” _ He tries to put the full force of the Beholding behind him. All of the strength he has left as Archivist but he can’t _ make _ Martin go with the power of _ sight. _ He can see how this’ll end. But he can’t do a thing about it now.

And Martin just smiles. “There’s no time, Jon. It’s okay.”

“It’s– it’s _ not _ okay–!” He clenches his hands. Grinds his teeth because it _ isn’t _ okay, it hasn’t _ been _ okay, and they are _ trapped _ with a countdown they can’t stop and this was _ supposed to make it be okay, _ for the rest of them. “Martin, you–”

“I couldn’t make it out if I wanted to. And it’s not like I could _ actually _ blind myself if I did, so…” Martin shrugs a little. “This is fine, Jon. It’s– it’s _ actually _ okay.”

“It’s NOT–”

“You’re our Archivist,” Martin interrupts. “My… my Archivist, actually, haha… I’ve lived for you, these past few years, so uh, y–yeah, dying for you sounds good to me.”

Jon thinks he’s appalled. _ “Martin.” _

“Dying _ with _ you,” Martin clarifies, and laughs, nervous, again. “I mean, I mean I’m _ scared, _ but I’m… I’d rather die with someone I– l–like. Er, and, and I wouldn’t want you to do this alone, anyway. So I’m staying on my own choice, even if… even if I _ could _ run. Which I really _ can’t.” _

“Martin–”

“It’s _ okay, _ Jon,” Martin repeats. “I promise. I promise, it’ll… it’ll really be okay. Trust me this time.”

“I–” The words stick in his throat. He can barely force himself to speak. “… I have trusted you,” he manages, and Martin smiles like he’s given him the world.

“I’ve always trusted you, too,” he says.

The world blisters. Jon thinks he cries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: heavily implied character deaths
> 
> whoops


	3. delirium

Jon knows something is wrong the moment they walk through the door. It’s not even the yellow door, but the world shifts and Jon’s spinning to confront the Distortion before he even takes a breath.

Before he can do that, he notices that Martin is gone.

The twisted hallways fall away to that, Jon pivots to try and get his eyes on him but he _ isn’t _ there. The anxiety shoots up his spine, and his shout echoes around in the endless labyrinth he’s been pulled into. _ “Michael!” _

“No need to shout.”

Jon jerks from the voice, the proximity just beyond his left ear. Then he tries to smooth his nerves (he doesn’t succeed) and turns to fix Michael with a glare. “Where’s Martin?”

“Whom?”

_ “Don’t.” _

“Oh. Right. The big one.” Michael seems to think. “He _ was _ with you, wasn’t he…”

Jon isn’t willing to play these games, not today. “Where _ is _he?” he repeats.

“Hmm… somewhere.”

_ “Michael.” _

“That _ is _ me, I suppose.”

Christ. “Why are you _ doing _ this?” he demands, through clenched teeth and simmering fear. He doesn’t care about the twisted tunnels in front of him. The madness spanning out isn’t something he’s _ not _ accustomed to, these days; he just wants to know what it’s done with _ Martin. _

“Entertainment,” Michael drawls, and laughs when Jon opens his mouth to protest. “Call it… a test, if you prefer.”

“I _ don’t.” _ He sucks in a sharp breath. “You know he’ll find his way out. He did it before, he’ll do it again.”

“Not a test for him.”

_ This is a test for you. _ The implication is loud and clear. “Alright, s–so why am I _ here, _ and Martin’s– wherever you dropped him?” 

Michael hums, a non-answer.

Jon is steadily losing his patience, thinking of Martin scrambling Michael’s hallways, confused and scared and no doubt looking for Jon. Knowing Martin would be more concerned for _ Jon _ than he would be his own self.

“Tell me what you _ want,” _ he demands, when Michael makes no move to continue, and Jon feels nauseous from watching the spirals twist and reform. “You brought us here, why d–”

“You’re very concerned.”

Jon closes his mouth. Then makes himself answer. “Of course I am.”

“Why?”

_ “Why?” _

“Archivists betray everyone.”

“If this is some– some _ revenge plot _ because of Gertrude, then–”

Michael laughs. Jon sways. “Hardly, Archivist,” it says, and Jon takes a deep breath to dispel the churning in his gut. “Merely… curious, I guess you could say.”

… he doesn’t want to, but, Jon supposes, the only way out _ is _ to play Michael’s game. “I need him,” he says, stubborn, and Michael tilts its head.

“Need?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

_ “What?” _

“He is inconsequential. From my experience… easily replaced.”

“Technically speaking,” Jon mutters, “I think we all are.”

“Yes,” Michael agrees, and sounds the closest thing to cheerful as it has done. “You don’t need the big one.”

“I _ want _ him, then, how– how’s that? Is that what I’m supposed to say?”

“Hmm… closer.”

“Closer?” Jon repeats. “What–?

“Why do you _ ‘want’ _ him, Archivist?”

“Because…” _ Why? _ He hasn’t… really thought about it. “Because he’s my friend.” That was the easiest, most simple answer. And one, he expects, Michael won’t take at face value. If Michael remembers _ friends _ at all. It probably doesn’t. “Because… because he’s my assistant, and I trust him, and it’s difficult to do that, these days, alright? Contrary to how I felt when I started working with him, I actually _ like _ him, so I’d _ appreciate _ it if you didn’t vanish him– or anyone else directly under my team– off into endless halls and doorways!”

Michael looks bored. Inasmuch as a manifestation of The Spiral can, Jon supposes. _ “Why _ do you like him?”

“Because… he’s… I don’t know. He’s resourceful, and he makes a good cup of tea.” Which is just about the most pathetic two reasons to _ like _ someone, Jon realizes. It’s deeper than that, but he doesn’t know how to explain it. Martin’s hovering is irksome, but… reassuring. His gentle jokes are subpar, but… still make Jon quirk a tiny smile, when Martin isn’t looking. His eagerness causes problems, but produces results, even if in a roundabout way. And… and he really does make the best cup of tea, one Jon can wrap his fingers around and let himself disappear off into the steam and scent of bergamot or spice.

“… he can make all of this bearable, somehow,” he murmurs, and _ that’s _ true, and Jon’s suddenly, almost startlingly, aware of the fact he doesn’t think he’d have managed to hang onto the part of himself that calls itself Jonathan Sims if it wasn’t for Martin at all– 

“Oh.”

Jon looks up.

Michael’s looking at some point over its shoulder, something like a grin on its lips. “He’s found a door already.”

“What??”

“He’s waiting.”

Jon reaches for the handle of the door he’d walked through. 

“Always come to find you. Such a loyal lapdog.”

_ “Don’t _ call him that.”

“Is he not?” Michael laughs, and when Jon steps through the door, he’s stepping out into the canteen and Martin’s rushing at him from across the room.

“Jon!”

“I’m fine,” he mumbles, as the handful of people in the cafe look between them. 

Martin doesn’t seem to notice, just nearly crashes into Jon, hands aloft like he wants to physically check him over for injuries. “Are you okay?? Was that– was that that Michael thing??”

“I’m fine…”

“Are you sure?? I thought– I thought I was going mad, then I remembered that _ thing–” _ His hand does land on Jon’s arm, settling there absentmindedly. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

_ Loyal. _

“… yes.” Jon clears his throat, and straightens. “Yes, thank you, Martin, perfectly fine. And you? Are you… are you alright?”

“Yeah. I mean, I just ran ‘til I found a door and came out in the kitchen. Scared the staff, but, um.” Martin shakes his head, and withdraws his hand. “What did it want?”

“To… to get in my head,” Jon settles on. It’s the truth. “Same as always.”

“Oh. _ God, _ Jon, I’m sorry, I should have–”

Martin keeps speaking. Jon isn’t listening.

It’s easier to focus on the small things, the details Michael had been trying to pull from his mind. The worry creasing Martin’s forehead. The anxious babbling and compassion in his eyes. The way he still looked at Jon as if he was still just… _ Jon. _

“Let me buy you lunch,” Jon interrupts, and Martin stammers.

“W–What? I mean, it’s just– it’s just _ Institute _ food, um, you don’t really have–”

“I want to,” Jon interrupts, and flushes warm when Martin’s face lights up despite, and when he remembers the way Michael had smiled at him in the corridors, only a moment ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> because 'delirium' made me immediately think of Michael, and, naturally, I went off on a whole ass tangent. the matchmaker Spiral, it knows what its doing


	4. human shield

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [end notes for content warnings!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20901176/chapters/49793138#chapter_4_endnotes)

The bullet hits Jon somewhere about his chest, and Martin screams.

It’s ludicrous, really, all the ways they could go and it’s a _ gun– _ but the fact Jon’s thrown himself in front of Martin seems to startle everyone just enough for the others to rush in to the rescue, and Martin’s left just trying to hold up a crumpling, bloody Jon while _ babbling _ words– he doesn’t even know what he’s saying– he just can’t _ stop– _

“Jon, oh my God, oh my God, oh my God–” The best he can really do is ease his descent to the ground, holding him against his chest as his own knees buckle. Jon’s gasping and moaning and _ bleeding _ all over him– “Jon, hang on, it’ll be okay–”

“O–Ow– _ fuck. _ H–Hang on, it’ll– it’ll heal in a second,” Jon gasps, hand seizing around Martin’s wrist, writhing in his grasp. 

Oh. Right. The Beholding’ll heal that.

Martin feels _ himself _ sag, feels the weight of the world crash down on his shoulders again and again and _ again, _ and it’s the weight of Jon’s body, tensed and twisting, in his lap. He keeps one hand splayed against the bullet wound, still pumping blood even if it is slower, and shifts the other to rest around the curve of Jon’s neck, holding at his pulse, pulling him closer and letting his own body curl around Jon’s. He puts his face in his hair. He thinks he might be crying. He’s absolutely crying into Jon’s hair and he can’t stop himself.

“Oh God, Jon,” he keeps saying, wet-faced and still acutely terrified. “God, I’m sorry, I’m sorry–”

_ Don’t do that again. Don’t do that again, for me. Not for me. I’m not worth it, I’m not worth the pain even if this kind of injury _ doesn’t _ kill you, I don’t deserve it, I’m not worth that suffering, I’m not, not me, not menotmenotforme– _

“R–Really, Ma–rtin.” Jon almost sounds his old, exasperated self, chastising Martin for misfiling or taking too much time making tea. “I’ll be fi–ine– mm.” He even manages a weary smile, like this is an _inconvenience_ rather than _a big deal._

“This time,” Martin almost shrieks, and has to force himself to breathe because he’s going to start hyperventilating soon–

“All the time,” Jon says. It’s a promise he has no business making. 

Martin holds him tighter, and waits for them to heal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw gun violence
> 
> J: it'll heal  
M: you're so STUPID and I LOVE YOU


	5. gunpoint

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [end notes for content warnings!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20901176/chapters/49828847/preview#chapter_5_endnotes)

“All I have to do is threaten to kill him–”

Jon’s heart lodges somewhere in his throat when the gun is turned on Martin. “No–”

“– and you’ll do whatever I say.” 

“No, he won’t,” Martin interrupts quickly. “You don’t know him.”

For an instant, Jon thinks he’s… hurt, maybe. He flashes Martin a glance he knows he doesn’t see, tries not to take it to heart. Martin’s saying whatever he thinks will help the situation. That’s all.

_ Or maybe he thinks that. Maybe he really does. _ Jon doesn’t want to linger on that. He doesn’t want to linger on how  _ selfish _ he’d been in regards to Martin, earlier on their careers. Not so long ago, even. It… it isn’t the time.

“Leave your Archivist to us.”

“No. No, you–”

“Martin,” Jon starts, a warning, a plea. He doesn’t know. He takes a step forward, and Martin gasps when the gun is turned back on Jon instead.

“Jon, no,  _ don’t, _ it’s–”

“Martin,  _ please. _ Just be quiet.”

“No,  _ no,  _ you don’t–” Martin speaks, and the gun is back on him, and Jon steps forward to block its path.  _ “Jon!” _ he hisses.

_ Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. _

He doesn’t say that. He doesn’t say anything, up until the moment he faces the gun aiming at the two of them, and asks of its owner, “what do you want me to do.”

“Come here.”

“Jon,  _ no.” _

He starts forward. It’s on a whim that he folds to his knees, hands on his thighs. Head bowed in a position of  _ submission _ because he figures it’ll give him points. All the while Martin’s talking, and struggling against his bonds.

The floor is cold and unforgiving. He asks again. 

“What do you want me to do?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dubcon/noncon vibes (ends before anything happens but the implication is very there)
> 
> wonder who this psychologically tortures more, Jon for experiencing or Martin for watching


	6. dragged away

Martin follows the trail of blood.

It’s a litany of _ please, God, please God, please God no _ through his head, in time with his feet on the cement as he runs. A familiar mantra, when it comes to Jon’s safety, but he’d seen– seen that _ thing _ appear and snatch him away, drag him with a terrified yelp off into the shadows.

Probably, he should have gone for help. He’d gone after Jon instead.

Because _ of course _ he’d gone after Jon, they’ll berate him later, hell, _ Jon’ll _ probably berate him from his hospital bed after this _ (if he’s not dead– STOP that, Martin!) _ but he can’t just _ leave. _ He can’t lose him. He knows the rest of them think he’s _ actually _ crazy, but he _ can’t _ lose him, it doesn’t matter what everyone else is saying, he _ loves _ him, dammit– 

It’s freeing, in a way, thinking that to himself. He _ does _ love Jon. Has, for some time. He still can’t exactly pinpoint the moment where the crush had turned into proper _ feelings, _ but… it was definitely love at this point. Which was _ stupid, _ because Jon definitely didn’t love him and probably never would.

But anyway.

Even if he _ didn’t _ love Jon, he still wouldn’t leave him to be dragged away by some monster that they should have never had to face in their lives to begin with.

So Martin doesn’t go for help. He goes after Jon, and he always will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> run, Martin, save him from himself 😭


	7. isolation

It is day seventeen. 

Jon doesn’t know this.

There’s a lot he doesn’t know. By now– it feels like ages– he knows the burn of rope around his wrists, and the weight of it wrapped around his middle, and the sting of tape pulled from his skin and put back when he starts _ asking. _ He knows the feel of mannequin hands against his skin, the cool bite of lotion and plastic against old scars. He knows cold, and damp, and darkness.

He doesn’t know if anyone is coming for him.

Nikola tells him that they won’t. He doesn’t think he should be inclined to believe her, except… part of him does. Part of him doesn’t believe anyone is looking. Why would they be? He’s been so absent to begin with. What’s another missing week, two, three? What’s his death to them? They won’t even _ notice. _

… maybe Martin. Maybe Martin will.

God. Martin. He didn’t think there’d come a day where he missed his chatter, but… he’d take it in a heartbeat over this silence. Over Nikola.

By day twenty-seven, Jon thinks he’s a little delirious. He definitely isn’t dehydrated– bad for the skin– but he’s woozy and uncoordinated and finds himself wishing it was _ Martin’s _ hands on him instead of all of these servants of The Stranger. He wants the warmth of another human hand, of _ Martin’s _hands, always so fluttering and comforting and gentle, idle-minded touches and guidances through the halls of The Institute. Fingers touching over a cup of tea. Christ, he misses tea.

He misses Martin.

“Look, I’m– I’m _ so _ sorry, Jon, I– Elias didn’t even tell any of us that you’d been kidnapped. I didn’t know–”

That concern is… far, far more touching than it might have been a month ago.

“Oh, hey–”

“No one else was telling me–”

“Hey, hey–”

“And there wasn’t any–”

“Hey, it’s alright,” Jon interrupts. He wants to reach out _ his _ hand, scarred with all his best intentions, and settle it on Martin’s… arm, or shoulder, or… something. He’s not good at this, but he wants to. He doesn’t. “It’s alright. Elias didn’t tell anyone. There was no way you could have known. I– I mean… I wasn’t exactly here before.”

“No, you weren’t…” Martin pauses, and then frowns, and then drops his gaze. “But I’m sure that if you could have been, you would have,” he continues, determined, even if he doesn’t look back up.

That concern is touching.

In the end, he hopes Martin is right. He hopes it really isn’t too late for the two of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the obvious choice was to write about the lonely, but then I thought... what if I didn't! ... I love the way their voices sound in that episode 😔


	8. stab wound

He wishes he wasn’t turning up at Martin’s, bleeding on his doorstep, but… here he is. He does feel guilty when Martin opens the door and the apprehensive curiosity turns to stark horror as he sees the blood staining Jon’s sweater, but… here they are.

“Oh, Christ!”

“Hi,” Jon says, pathetic, and then promptly feel his knees buckle from relief. Part of him had been wondering what he’d do if Martin wasn’t home, or didn’t answer the door.

“Jon!” Martin catches him before he can crumble to the cement. _ “Shit. _ What happened??” He wraps his arm about Jon’s waist, careful but strong. “Stay awake. Here.”

“Stab wound’s doing a pretty good job at _ keeping _ me awake.” He thinks that’s a joke. Maybe. It _ does _ hurt enough that he doesn’t think he’ll fall asleep, but the blood loss _ is _ worrisome. He clutches at Martin’s sweater and lets him help him into the house.

He does drift off eventually, when Martin’s done what he can for the wound, when Jon’s stopped bleeding all over his sweater vest and Martin’s scratchy wool jumper and the carpet and God knows what else. Somehow, he ends up wrangled into Martin’s bed, dozing, and… Martin’s still there, napping at the foot of the bed where he’d sat.

Jon, carefully, nudges him with a stocking foot. “Hey.”

“Mm– oh, Jon.” Martin straightens up, shivering as he does. “How– God, I didn’t mean to fall asleep– how’re you feeling…?”

“Like I’m taking your bed–” He barely moves enough for the motion to hit his torso, and the ache that stabs through him still makes him choke a little in pain. Right, so not quite long enough yet, then.

“No!” Martin flusters up, leaning in to press his hand against Jon’s shoulder. “Stay still, please, just– just… stay still. You need to sleep. Please just… just take it easy?”

Jon sags back into the pillows, because… well, he is tired and aching and Martin’s bed is… comfortable. _ “You _ need to sleep,” he mumbles.

“I’m okay,” Martin says, and hesitantly pulls away. Like he expects Jon’ll just… jump up. Which he guesses… he probably would if he could. But he’s not right now. He’ll stay put. “I just… I just want you to sleep awhile longer. And stay. It’s late, and you can wait to… to go back to The Institute tomorrow or whatever.”

“Right…” It isn’t like he has much choice. But he doesn’t want to leave just then, anyway. Besides, there’s an idea on the periphery. If it goes wrong, he can blame it on blood loss, or pain, or being tired. Or a combination of the three. “You should sleep,” he says carefully, and gestures to the free side of the bed.

Martin follows the trajectory of his hand, and then goes pink in the matter of seconds it takes for the idea to fall in.

“Don’t be silly, I’ll– I’ll sleep on the sofa–”

Jon arches his eyebrows, he thinks. He’s still pretty dozy, but he likes to think he manages. “Not comfortably.” It’s too small, for Martin’s height. Besides, Jon’s pretty sure he managed to bleed on it.

“I’m fine–”

“I’m not kicking you out of your own bed–”

“I won’t sleep,” Martin blurts, and then looks, Jon doesn’t know, stricken. “I just… I won’t… be able to sleep.”

“Relax, then.” It’s easy to be flippant when you’re too tired to argue. Besides… “I’d like you to.” He is serious about that.

“You… God, Jon,” Martin says, and laughs, nervous and… excited?– it’s hard to tell– in turns. “I don’t think you get it.”

“I think I do,” Jon says, quietly, and closes his eyes when Martin goes still all over again. 

He doesn’t clarify. Just waits on Martin to grasp at either his confidence or his anxiety, letting him decide where he wants to go with this. God knows Jon isn’t good at it, either.

The blankets shift. Jon squirms over best he can to make room. Martin hesitates, and then slides beneath the covers, awkward and tense. It’s a start.

“… what does this mean?” Martin asks, tremulous.

Jon can only answer honestly. “I don’t know.” He does, however, inch a little closer to Martin, because he is warm, and he is comfortable.

“Right… um. C– Can I touch you? Like– Like, um, y– your hand, or… something?”

Jon wiggles his fingers against the sheets. “Sure,” he allows, and drifts off again to Martin’s warm fingers encompassing his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THERE we go!!!! good boys!!! well done!!


	9. shackled

“There’s worse things, right?”

“Martin.”

“There’s definitely– definitely worse people to be handcuffed to than you, right? Ha.”

_ “Martin.” _ Jon bites back a retort of irritation, born from a long day that’s gone wrong and the chance that they might not even make it out of here alive. “I appreciate you trying to make this  _ romantic, _ but let’s focus on the matter at hand, alright?”

Martin’s hand squeezes at Jon’s. Jon, despite himself, can’t help but appreciate the play on words.

Both of their hands are cuffed to each other’s, behind their backs by two pairs of industry grade handcuffs, and the metal’s starting to bite at Jon’s skin. Martin’s hands are a balm to it, his thumb over the aching spots on his wrists. The positioning of their cuffs makes it almost impossible for Jon to reciprocate, and it feels useless, anyway, but… he tries.

_ “You’re _ the matter at hand,” Martin says, and laughs, nervous anxiety that’s been thrumming since they’d woken up here in the dark, shackled to one another.

Jon laughs, too, before he can stop himself. It isn’t funny. None of this is. But Martin’s right, in his way. They really are…  _ at hand. _

“Fair enough,” Jon says quietly.

Martin rubs at his wrist, and Jon allows himself to tilt his head back to lean against Martin’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just some gentle touching here...


	10. unconscious

He’s bleeding.

It isn’t a good sign, these days, when Martin _ knows _ Jon shouldn’t be bleeding like that. It would be a good sign, any other time, any other place. Maybe it would even mean Jon’s humanity is back, that the real Jon is back, no more monsters or avatars or fears holding him down. But not right now.

God, he hopes someone is looking for them, Martin thinks, and staggers through the tunnels. 

Jon is so _ small, _ unconscious and nestled in Martin’s arms like so many times he had thought about… carrying him to bed or something, _ God, _ he doesn’t know. But he fits so perfectly in Martin’s arms, and… he’s… no, he’s _ bleeding, _and now is not the time for ruminating on what could have been. Right now… definitely not the time.

Besides, Martin knows no one is looking for them. No one’s been looking for him for a very long time, and Jon… well, no one’s probably looking for him, either. 

The tunnels are a lot more dangerous now, as their stories crumple down around them. Martin carries Jon in his arms, and flees.


	11. stitches

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there is, obviously, some stitching going on in this one (unprofessional, at home stitches thumbs up)

“Christ.”

“I  _ really _ need you not to be squeamish right now, Jon.”

“I’m not, just–” Jon sighs, cringing a little when he threads the needle through Martin’s skin again. He can at least say his hands aren’t shaking any longer. The whisky had done its wonder there. “This is different,” he tries to explain pathetically, because Martin’s right: after everything, suturing a wound should be one of the  _ smaller _ things to bother him. 

“It’s just blood and skin,” Martin says, flatly, and his voice is all wrong. “We’ve seen plenty of it.”

“True,” Jon murmurs, because he can’t disagree. And because his stomach is rolling a little, so he probably shouldn’t speak, anyway.

He doesn’t even know what to say.

So, he sews up Martin’s wound, watches Martin sway when he gets up and says he’s leaving, and then… and then Jon’s hand is darting out before he can stop himself, grabbing at Martin’s wrist, wanting to beg him not to go.

“You don’t have to keep doing this.”

“I  _ really _ do.”

“You don’t,” Jon says, even though he knows there’s nothing that can convince Martin now. Not even him. “It’s going to kill you.”

“He’s protecting me.”

Jon stares, and then very pointedly looks at the blood-smeared patch of woollen jumper Martin’s had ruined by the injury.

“Most of the time,” Martin says begrudgingly. “And he’s protecting e–” Something changes, crosses his face in that breath and he shakes his head. Pulls away. “I have to do this, Jon. Thank you for… for opening the door.”

He wants to beg him to stay. He wants to give him the relative safety of his home and the four walls that its made up of. He wants him to… he wants him to be okay, but Jon doesn’t get the luxury of saying it, anymore.

He may not trust Peter, but he has to trust Martin.

“Always, Martin,” he says softly. “I’ll always be here if you need me.”

Martin goes, and Jon lingers in the open doorway.


	12. "don't move"

“Don’t move.”

“Sure thing,” Jon rasps, and he really must feel like shit to _ actually _ stay in bed while Martin fetches him another blanket.

Even the mighty could be toppled by something as simple as a _ fever. _

It’s almost… cute, in a way, but Martin doesn’t say that. He’s a man of decency, and Jon’s _ suffering. _ So he holds back the smile until his back is turned, and goes to get that blanket while Jon coughs into the ones he’s swathed up in in Martin’s bed.

“You know it’s not good for you, right?” he does say, shaking the blanket out and letting it settle down over the Jon-shaped lump huddled beneath the covers. “Because you’ve got a fever.”

“Martin, I don’t think you realize how _ cold _ it is.”

“I do,” Martin says, smoothing the blanket and Jon’s hair from his forehead. It _ is _ cold in his flat. All the old shoddy heating and pipes that won’t get hot half the time when he’s trying to take a shower, but he’s used to it. He likes wearing oversized jumpers anyway. But poor Jon. Feverish and stuck in this drafty old flat. Martin would have suggested going to Jon’s if that didn’t involve going out in the cold in the first place. “I live here, Jon,” he says gently, and smiles at him.

“Right… sorry.” Jon turns his head to cough again, groaning when he drops his head back into the pillows. “Sorry.”

“No worries, I mean, it is kinda cold here. All the time. Only upside is that I’m not sweltering in the summer. But anyway, it’s different. It’s worse for you. You’re the one who’s sick.”

“You’ll get sick,” Jon mumbles, voice thick, and peers at Martin through red, watery eyes and what’s probably meant to be a stern expression.

“Maybe. But not necessarily.” He leans in, pecks a kiss to Jon’s sweaty forehead. “And it’s okay if I do, the archives can handle it if I’m the one who’s out sick.”

“Don’t need to get sick because of me,” Jon says. His voice is getting drowsy, nasally as it is. He’s drifting again. In and out, the past few hours. Making a good faith attempt at arguing with Martin every time, but never actually getting up or pushing him away.

“I’d rather get sick for you than sick for no reason at all,” Martin says, and then wrinkles his nose, because. “Wow, okay, that sucked. Umm. I just mean… this is for a good cause?” he tries again, and thinks he sees Jon smile into the blankets.

“Whatever you say,” he allows, and Martin laughs, and goes to get another cold compress to put on Jon’s forehead again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> takes a potential super whumpy one and makes it soft 👌


	13. adrenaline

It’s the adrenaline that keeps them going.

Even so, Martin’s starting to lag. Jon doesn’t blame him. He’s running out of breath himself, and his legs are starting to cramp. But they can’t afford to fall behind right now.

“Give me your hand,” he says, and shoves his own out towards Martin.

It’s a noise of exhaustion and confusion Martin makes in return, muffled and still… surprised, maybe. Mostly he just sounds tired, even if just a little bit like he can’t believe Jon’s trying to get him to keep up.

“Give me your hand,” Jon repeats, stubborn and wheezing. His heart thuds in his chest. He feels the pulse at his fingertips when he feels for Martin without looking. “Martin–”

Their hands are sweaty. He misses at first go, fingers sliding away from his. Then Jon snatches Martin’s hand from midair and holds on, practically dragging him along behind. Neither of them can afford to fall behind.

“I know– you’re tired, but– we need to keep running,” he orders, and squeezes his hand. “Try to stay with me.”

Martin makes another noise, noncommental from lack of oxygen. But it sounds vaguely like  _ uh huh, _ and he hangs desperately onto Jon’s hand, and they run.


	14. tear-stained

He barely remembers what it is to cry.

It’s been… _ ages _ since he’s shed tears. Not over Tim, not over Sasha. Not… not anytime recently. Not anytime Jon can remember in the past few years. He doesn’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad one. 

Probably bad. 

Right now, it’s like all those few years have come crashing in, and Jon’s long since buried his face against Martin’s chest when the tears had started. Martin’s holding onto him, telling him _ it’s alright, he’s okay, _ even though they both know it’s all platitude. Jon… can’t bring himself to care. Christ, he feels like hell.

It’s been a very long time since he allowed himself to cry.

Martin, to his credit, doesn’t push him away, even when he’s certain he’s getting unmentionable things on his shirt. There’s already a damp spot from where he can’t stop _ crying, _ but Martin doesn’t seem to mind. He just holds him tighter, and Jon clutches at him like… like he really is the only thing holding him together right now.

“I’ve got you,” Martin murmurs, breathing into his hair. He’s warm, and encompassing, and… God, so very needed. Jon _ needs _ him, and he’s so glad he’s there. “You can just… crying’ll help, a bit.”

Jon’s breath hitches. He doesn’t think it will.

“I know,” Martin says. His voice is soft, and apologetic. “It sucks, a lot, but… trust me, it’ll help. It helps. I promise.” He kisses the top of his head, and circles his arms around him more snugly. He’s like a furnace, warm in ways that burns Jon to the core. He welcomes it.

It’s too vulnerable, the very real ache in his chest and the damp on his cheeks and Martin’s old, oversized pajamas. But he tries not to think about it, because he feels… so protected here, which is… also an uncommon feeling to have, these days.

Jon curls a little closer to Martin, and doesn’t try to stop the tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wonder if he can cry anymore... looks at jonny and the final two episodes


	15. scars

There’s a fascination, and there has been, in the morbid way that’s been plaguing him since all of the unsettling stuff started happening at the Institute, that he can’t quite push away when it comes to Jon’s scars.

They’re…  _ terrible, _ and they make Martin’s heart twinge in all the worst kind of ways, especially when he thinks about how he’d  _ run _ in the tunnels and left Jon and Tim to fend for themselves, but… God, he doesn’t know. He just wants to touch them,  _ kiss them, _ all the time. Just… give all of the little injuries the love and attention they deserve.

He doesn’t notice he’s rubbing his thumb over the marked flesh at Jon’s hand until, well, Jon’s staring at their hands and Martin’s thumb, passing methodically over the old worm scars. “Er– sorry.” It’s embarrassing, really. He just doesn’t seem to… be able to stop himself, which makes for awkward moments. Like when they’re curled in bed and he starts tracing the raised flesh and pockmarks. Or like now.

“It’s fine.” Jon says it the same way he always does, a little puzzled and almost with a comical tilt of his head, like it’s some big mystery he can’t quite figure out. Like he can’t figure out  _ why _ Martin wants to shower all those battle scars with all the love he has to give. And Martin doesn’t know how to explain, anyway. He wouldn’t be able to if he tried.

He just… really,  _ really _ wants to kiss Jon’s hand right now.

He doesn’t, because it’s the train and there’s  _ people, _ and he’s happy and nervous enough in turns that they’re  _ holding hands _ in public as is, so he won’t push it. Anyway, Jon’s still looking at him like he  _ knows _ Martin wants to do something grossly romantic, so that’s good enough for Martin.

He beams, and nods a bit, and quietly goes back to stroking Jon’s scars with all the reverence he feels they deserve.


	16. pinned down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [end notes for content warnings!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20901176/chapters/50182076#chapter_16_endnotes)

He hears Martin scream over the crackling old speakers, and claps his hands over his ears so he doesn’t have to hear. But he _ can, _ and does, even long after Martin cuts himself off, abrupt and pained. Can still hear his panicked, choked breathing because the speakers are _ old _ but they’re still _ loud, _ and biles rises in Jon’s throat as he hurtles down the halls. He knows this is a game, just a game. Not even a test. That makes it worse, when he takes another wrong turn and hits another dead end. He’s just beginning to wonder if The Spiral has a hand in this when the voice over the loudspeaker proclaims _ “Congratulations!” _ and the mechanical doors slide open to a dark room and pained, heavy breathing.

“Martin–”

“Mmmppfff–!”

He almost doesn’t want to see, but he’s already fumbling for his phone to turn on the torch to shine it around the room.

At first glance, it isn’t _ so _ bad; Martin’s _ alive, _ clearly, and he doesn’t appear to be immediately dying or anything. He’s stark pale and tear-stained and there’s electrical tape over his mouth, but he’s _ alive, _ and staring at Jon with… probably relief, through the pain. Then Jon’s beam of light touches the blood, and his hands tremble as he follows the line of it, right up to the knife that’s _ through _ Martin’s hand, keeping it pinned to the wall behind him. The other hand’s pinned, too, but that one looks like through the sleeve instead, there’s no blood, but if Jon would have taken any _ longer– _

Christ, he doesn’t know what’s worse. He feels sick just staring, and then he forces himself to move. Sprinting across the room, clicking on the lone lantern sitting innocently there for him to better see with.

“Martin– Martin, hang on–” He flutters, for a moment, unsure of… what to do first. Or if Martin’s hurt anywhere else. Or how to soothe him and make it better when _ nothing _ can make it better. “Martin,” he breathes again, and then reaches up for the tape on his mouth. “Sorry, h–hold on–”

The first noise out of Martin’s mouth is a sob, and Jon grimaces, and falters, and _ doesn’t want to do this _ even though he, rationally, knows the worst part would have been the knife going _ in– _

“Jesus. I’m sorry.” He pulls the knife pinning Martin’s sleeve free first, and Martin half slumps, half staggers, throwing that hand to Jon’s shoulder and making a choked noise of pain when it must– must pull on the other– _ Christ. _ “I’m sorry, I– I– h–hold on–”

He tries to stop hesitating, grips the dagger, and wrenches it free. It goes clattering across the floor when he drops it, and there’s more _ blood, _ and Martin all but collapses into him, bloody and sobbing but alive.

The force of his stumble and height and weight barrels into Jon, knocks them efficiently to the concrete before Jon can even attempt to right them. He does try to– he doesn’t know– _ cushion Martin’s fall, _ or something, tries to get his arms around him and hold onto him and– and… God, he doesn’t know.

Martin’s crying so hard against his shoulder he can barely think, anyway.

“Martin… I–I–I– give me you hand, I– I should… I need to bind it–” With what? He doesn’t know. His jacket, Martin’s shirt. Martin doesn’t move, but his injured hand’s already pressed against Jon, anyway, so Jon gently tries to apply pressure to the wound without irritating it further. They… they need to get him to a hospital. They need to get above ground before he can dial 999. “I’m so sorry,” he finds himself blurting instead, and Martin cries and quivers in his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> major injury/body horror(?)
> 
> borrowed this idea straight from ffxv and you know what, I ain't sad >3


	17. "stay with me"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [end notes for content warnings!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20901176/chapters/50197646#chapter_17_endnotes)

“Oh Christ, Martin, stay with me.”

Jon’s concern is… touching. It’s odd, because Martin hasn’t been… he hasn’t been touched by anything other than the cold of The Lonely, or Peter’s hand on his shoulder, or… anything, for a long while. So the fact that Jon’s concern makes him feel… warm… that’s strange. Nice, he thinks, but he isn’t sure he knows anymore.

Still, he smiles a bit, because that feels right, at the very least. “Don’t worry, Jon,” he whispers, and then coughs, and his body seizes in Jon’s arms.

“You  _ are _ too late, you know,” Peter says pleasantly.

Something flashes in Jon’s eyes. It doesn’t look human. He raises his head to look somewhere over his shoulder. “Could you  _ please–” _

“Gladly.”

Something else settles… odd into Martin at the voice. The one he recognizes, the one he’d  _ hated. _ He wants to say it’s maybe a remnant of fear, except he doesn’t feel that anymore.

“Oh,” Peter says, “hello Elias.”

“I see you’ve handled the Institute exactly how I  _ hoped  _ you wouldn’t.”

“Well, we can’t  _ all _ be handed silver platters by our patrons, can we?”

“Elias…?” Martin tries to question, but even that curiosity is fading fast, and he’s getting weaker. Peter’s right. It really is too late.

“Don’t worry about it,” Jon says, and then settles a hand, awkward, at Martin’s chest. “I brought him to get you out, so we can just–”

Martin shakes his head slightly, shutting Jon up. “Peter's… right.”

Jon looks stricken. “No. He’s– he’s never been, Martin–”

“It’s okay.” And it… it is, actually. 

“No.  _ No, _ I need you to–”

“I’m not going to die,” he says, definitive, because he knows  _ that _ much is true. “I’m… I chose–”

“No,” Jon breathes.

“I’ll be like you… maybe,” he allows. An avatar. Except instead of The Eye, it’s The Lonely, and… and maybe instead of taking people’s trauma, it’ll just be… letting some people get lost in the fog? Finding people, like him, the ones others won’t miss. He… hasn’t thought too much on his duties as a full avatar. He doesn’t care much.

Besides, if he ends up like Jon… that wouldn’t be so bad, he thinks, as Jon holds him a little bit tighter.

“No, Martin, just– just stay. W–With me. Alright? Just–”

“I’ll come back,” Martin promises.

For ill or good… he had made that choice a long time ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> implied character death but soon to be an avatar so??? jic
> 
> listen I wrote this bit before mag158 but I ain't even mad. 158 watered my withered ass crops and I'm still high off the contact but hey, fun to envision those bad case scenarios >3


	18. muffled scream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [end notes for content warnings!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20901176/chapters/50241605#chapter_18_endnotes)

Give it a few weeks ago and Martin would have said the worst noise in the world was  _ knocking. _ Or  _ wriggling. _ Or– or, God, he doesn’t know,  _ anything _ to do with the masses of worms that have been terrorizing him– them– the past few months. Or maybe even just… Jon shouting at them to look out, a kind of panic in his voice Martin wasn’t used to hearing from Jon, since he was always so put together and everything.

But then  _ this, _ their makeshift surgery after he'd herded them into the one supposed safe room in the archives, Jon pale and shaking and breathing hard up until the point where the gasping had turned to an actual scream and that… that’s the worst noise Martin thinks he’s ever heard, and he really,  _ really _ wants it to stop. 

He– He knows it’s necessary, alright?? Okay. So. He doesn’t  _ want _ the worm to stay in Jon! That’d be… bad. Really bad. And the corkscrew  _ was _ his idea, and it had been, he’d had it there for awhile  _ for _ this reason, but?! He hadn’t expected to have to use it! He hadn’t wanted anyone to have to use it! And not on Jon!  _ Definitely _ not on Jon.

Right now, Jon’s a litany of words Martin’s never heard him say, which is… which is  _ fair, _ because– because if he was getting… having  _ that _ done, he’d be the same, but… but then he’s really bad with pain, and Jon’s– Jon’s just Jon, so– 

“Hang on, Jon, almost got it–”

Sasha cuts deeper, and Jon slaps a hand over his mouth to muffle his cry of pain, and Martin squirms, and tries to breathe past the nausea swirling in his own gut. Christ, he really hates hearing people in pain.

He wants to help, but he can’t. He knows he can’t. They’re  _ stuck _ here, and they don’t have  _ any _ options. There’s no cell service, the room is soundproof, Jon won’t be able to walk for awhile and even then running  _ isn’t really _ an option– 

He thinks Jon might  _ actually _ be crying now, tears of pain, understandable– but it shakes Martin to the core, and he can’t just  _ stand _ here and watch.

He wants to help. He wants to… he doesn’t know, he doesn’t know! Hold his hand, maybe. Let him squeeze onto his fingers and try to take away some of the pain, but that doesn’t  _ really _ help and Jon wouldn’t allow it, anyway. He knows, he knows–

So, instead, he turns around to fiddle with the tape recorder, taking a few breaths to steady himself.

Jon quits screaming right after Martin fumbles the tape back on, which is probably just as well, because Jon probably  _ isn’t _ going to want to relive that bit. “Did you get it…?” he asks, wary.

Jon shouts again, and then Sasha pulls back, looking pleased.

“There,” she says, grabbing a handful of tissues. “And I just want to point out that  _ I _ didn’t make this much of a fuss.”

Jon’d definitely been crying. His face is still wet even as he scrubs his eyes, and tries to catch his breath. Martin can barely look at him like this. “I think… I think your removal was substantially cleaner,” he manages.

Sasha gives him a pitying look, and wipes away some more blood. “I’m still not sure why you have this. Drinking in the archives?”

It takes Martin a minute to realize she’s talking to him. “What?” He tears his eyes away from Jon. “No, no, it’s for worms.”

“What…?”

“For pulling worms out of people… like now.”

“You… uh, what?”

“I used to carry around a knife, but I started thinking that, well, cutting into someone laterally wasn’t really the most efficient way to get them out? And besides which, they seem to be quite… slow burrowing in a straight line so, given their size, th–the corkscrew just seemed to be the better option.”

They’re staring at him like he’s crazy, but… it looks like it’s distracting Jon, at least. Martin’ll take it.

“Look, you guys got to go home every day, okay? I didn’t. I’ve been thinking for a long time about what to do when... well, y’know,  _ this _ happens.” Thinking, and hoping, and praying it wouldn’t. But then he’d never had much luck, had he?

Jon parts his lips to speak, then stops. He just seems to consider Martin for another moment, then nods slightly. “Well…” His voice is soft, now. “Thank you.”

Martin swallows, abruptly nervous again, and goes to help Sasha with the bandages.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this probably doesn't need a warning on its own, but canon typical blood/gore/injury
> 
> anyway the whole of Colony still fascinates me and Martin's little crush was (assumingly) in its first stages, which makes it even cuter and this part even more crushing since he had to listen to Jon in pain


	19. asphyxiation

It’s as the darkness bleeds across the whole of his vision, the pressure at his throat vanishes. Jon drops, immediate, legs crumbling beneath, trembling. He barely breathes, thinks he’s forgotten how. It _ hurts. _

The hands that land on him, while his eyes are still closed and he’s struggling for air, _ scare _ him.

“J— _Jon! _ Just me, it’s j–just–” Martin stammers. 

Martin, _ of course. _

“Oh, shit. Jon?” One of Martin’s hands settle at the throbbing welts at Jon’s throat, feather light and uncertain. “Tim?”

“Oh, he’s fine.” Oh, Tim, too. 

“He’s not _ fine! _ Look– just look at him–”

“He’s breathing, Martin, he’s not _ dead.” _ Feels like Tim taps his fist to Jon’s shoulder, a mock punch. “Right, boss? Still with us, huh?”

Jon’s breath rattles, and he forces himself to nod.

“See? He’s fine.”

“If we’d been– if he hadn’t–”

“Life'stoo short, Martin. Chill.”

Jon swallows painfully, and tries to clear his throat. “... ‘m fine,” he rasps, prying his eyes open. Tim’s right. It’s agony, for now, and the certainty of death had been right in front of him, but… he… he’s fine. “I’m–”

Martin’s hand, still settled gently at his skin, slips to the nape of his neck, and then– and then Martin must kiss him, Jon supposes.

It is _ startling, _ more from shock than anything else, he imagines, but not… bad. Gentle. Like Jon has much experience to go on, but past the shock and agony of almost being _suffocated,_ it is _ nice? _ Except he still can’t catch his breath and has to turn away to cough to make himself breathe again.

“Oh, God! I didn’t– I–I–I didn’t mean to do _ that–” _

“Holy _ shit, _ Martin.”

“Jon, I’m– I’m sorry, I– Jesus, what am I doing–”

“I was going to suggest mouth-to-mouth,” Tim said excitedly, “but I thought I’d get slapped for it–!”

“Oh, shut up!”

“No chance in _ hell, _ this is _ perfect!” _

“Tim, _ please–” _ Martin’s voice catches somewhere close to trembling, a plea in his words.

Jon clumsily catches his hand at Martin’s knee, patting it awkwardly. “‘s okay,” he mutters.

“No, it’s not,” Martin says, definitely tearful now. “I just– wasn’t thinking, I guess, I got so _ scared–” _

“Try it again when I can breathe,” Jon manages, and… that does get Martin to stop babbling.

“… oh,” he says instead, quiet, and–

_ “Amazing,” _ Tim laughs, and Jon thinks both he and Martin blush.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was so uninspired by this prompt but then Martin made a move and I'm?? in love
> 
> so is Jon


	20. trembling

“Jon…”

“I’m o–”

He hears Jon cut himself off, before the first syllable even leaves his mouth. Martin watches sadly, and wonders if that’s progress. No, he knows it has to be.

“… I’ll be fine,” Jon continues, mumbling. “It’s just the… just the same.”

He hates it. He hates that.  _ God, _ Martin hates that Jon still has all the Beholding dreams– the memory of the Beholding dreams, even now that they’re free of all of that. But they’re not, not really. They aren’t… they aren’t  _ servants, _ anymore, and the Entities can’t touch them again, but Jon has all the ghosts of his past and Martin… Martin doesn’t manage much better, some days.

Jon dreams more than he does, though. So Martin does hate that.

He swallows the ice cold trickle of sadness, and reaches over to wrap his arms around him. “Want some tea?”

“I want some  _ sleep,” _ Jon mutters, and slumps into Martin’s arms.

He’s shaking. Actually… physically… trembling. 

Martin bites his lip so hard he has to lick away a speck of blood, and then he buries his face in Jon’s hair. “There’s… um, we have stuff.” Sleeping pills they’d relied a little too heavily on in the weeks following their release from their patrons. “I can get something.”

“Maybe,” Jon agrees begrudgingly, but doesn’t move. Probably likes the sleep aids as much as Martin does: not at all.

“Alright,” Martin says gently, rubbing his hand along Jon’s arm. All the goosebumps there, trying to chase away all the remnants of the fear. “Well, you can take your time. ‘s okay.” He reaches for the blanket, wrapping it snug around the both of them. He hopes he can get him to stop shaking, at least. “We can just, y’know, cuddle in the meantime.”

“You should go back to sleep,” Jon says, voice weary. But he still doesn’t move, which is for the best, considering Martin’s got them both wrapped up tight now. “There’s no reason for both of us to be exhausted.”

“I went to bed before you, anyway,” Martin points out gently. “I’m okay. I’ve had worse.”

“We’ve had worse,” Jon murmurs, and rests his head on Martin’s chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gimme that sweet sweet coping post-entities! coping and struggling to cope and sometimes failing but still managing! (also give me jon having beholding-esque dreams without them actually being real)


	21. laced drink

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [end notes for content warnings](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20901176/chapters/50350454#chapter_21_endnotes)

“Jon…?”

“Hmm…?”

Okay… so it wasn’t like Jon didn’t fall asleep at the weirdest times. Or places. Or _ both, _ Martin thinks, because how many times has he dragged him awake from falling asleep over his desk or in the library or the break room or– or a couple times on the train, actually. He _ knows _ Jon’s always tired. 

But… but… isn’t this a little _ extreme? _ Jon hadn’t even wanted to come to the office party, didn’t _ like _ people, and he was just… he kind of looks like he’s falling asleep in the middle of all of this? Which… definitely isn’t a Jon thing.

“Uh, you okay?” Martin asks carefully. Jon isn’t… he never had taken well to _ caretaking, _ really, but… Martin’s _ sure _he hasn’t been drinking enough to look so strung out.

“Yeah.” Jon shifts to rest his head on his hand, and just kind of… _ misses, _ and has to steady himself against the tabletop to complete the circuit. “Thanks,” he murmurs, quiet, and his eyes slip shut.

… that definitely isn’t right. Martin frowns, leaning over him. “Jon.”

“Huh?”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“No, that’s not…”

“I actually feel _ good, _ Martin.” He smiles, faintly, and doesn’t open his eyes. “Don’t mind me.”

“Jon.”

“Just sleepy.”

“Jon,” Martin repeats urgently. “Hey.” Shakes his shoulder a little. “Jon. Jon.”

“Whaaat?”

“Did you– what did you drink? Eat?” He shakes his shoulder a little harder, until Jon opens his eyes to look up at him. And _yeah, _something is _definitely_ wrong, definitely, because his pupils are dilated and he just looks too… _soft._ _“Jon.”_

“Just… Martin– just the punch,” he says, waving vaguely towards the front table.

“Oh Christ– Tim!” he yells, shifting enough to rub at Jon’s back without thinking. “Jon, did you leave your drink? Go to the loo? Anything?”

“Sure…” Jon mumbles. “Dunno.”

“Jon– _ shit.” _

“Alright, this had better be good, because I was…” Tim stops, and seems to take in the look on Martin’s face before realizing something is _ actually _ wrong. “What’s wrong?”

“Something’s wrong with Jon.”

“Well, _ yeah,” _ Tim says, “I know–”

“I think someone put something in his drink,” Martin interrupts.

Tim stops. Looks down at Jon, who’s still just sort of… _ zoning, _ and then back at Martin. And then, “ooooh…”

That _ tone… _ “Oh?! Tim!? Did you _ drug our boss?!” _ he shrieks.

“No!”

“Why ‘oh?!’”

“I… I heard a rumor–”

Martin’s eyes are going to _ fall out of his head. _ “That someone was going to poison Jon!”

_ “No, _ you–” Tim sighs, pushing his hand back through his hair. “It’s just… a joke, yeah? Someone said they were gonna spike someone’s drink, didn’t say who, but I didn’t think it was _ serious.” _

“Are you _ kidding me?” _

“It’s– no, it’s fine, it’s just, er– probably some kind of benzo–”

“Probably?!” Jon’s head lolls from his hand, and Martin tightens his hand on his shoulder so he doesn’t pitch forward and smack his head. _ “Shit. Help me,” _ he hisses, and slips that hand beneath Jon’s arm.

“Help you _ what?” _

“I– I’ll get him into a cab, take him– s–should I take him to hospital?” 

“Nooo,” Jon hisses, half slumping into Martin. Tim’s holding onto him, too, and Martin still has to wind his arm around his waist to keep him from stumbling away. “Just… you can take me home, Martin.”

Andddd of course that– he can’t help it, he still… feels himself blush, a bit. The implication of the statement and Jon’s warmth pressed against him just… does it.

And Tim, _ of course, _ still has the audacity to grin.

“Shut up,” Martin hisses, pulling Jon a little closer. “Shut up, _ fine, _ I’ll… I’ll watch him, a bit, but if it gets worse I’m taking him to A&E. Help me get him into a cab.”

Getting Jon _ into _ the cab is a little more difficult. He’s… clumsy, holding onto Martin’s hand even after he’d dropped into the seat. Martin’s _ absolutely _ blushing by the end, but at least Tim doesn’t say anything this time, instead promising to find out who did it and what it was.

Martin sighs shakily when he folds himself into the back of the cab, too, and then jerks when Jon _ curls against his side. _ “Jon…”

“‘m so tired.”

“Yeah…” Martin bites his lip, and then rests his hand on his hair. “Yeah, I know. Just… just relax, a bit. I’ll keep an eye on you.”

Jon hums, happy and noncommental.

Martin, guilty and worried in turns, lets him snuggle in a little more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> drugs/drugged drinks/general bad ideas of pranks
> 
> I don't think I need to say it but! don't drug people's drinks as jokes! and if you think someone's had their stuff spiked, take em to the hospital! but this is whumptober, and fiction
> 
> anyway. Martin's had a bit to drink and Jon's warm and cuddly and he can't quite tune that out so _aWkwARd bONerS_


	22. hallucination

Martin’s still crying, but he’s… oddly quiet about it. Jon thought he would have… nevermind. It doesn’t matter. 

All that matters now is that they’re found each other, and they’re together, and they might not be _ free, _ yet, but they can work on an escape now.

Martin flinches when Jon touches him, but he doesn’t blame him. After everything’s _ Jon _ seen, the pictures in his head of all the way things could go wrong, all the ways things _ had, _ all the way they hadn’t but, for a moment, had been true nonetheless. He tries not to dwell on it on the fantasies he's been fed here.

“Martin, it’s me.”

Martin shakes, and cracks his eyes open.

“It’s– it’s real, this time. I’m me.”

Martin doesn’t reply, eyes glazed, tired, maybe hopeful. The latter of which is mostly hidden away, and Jon swallows, and tries to come up with a solution.

He doesn’t think kissing him will help. Martin’s probably daydreamed about that plenty. And he doesn’t want to _ compel _ him, not now, not after all of this when they’re both so emotionally drained, but…

“Our first kiss was the awkward one outside your flat,” he says, hesitant. “When I kissed you because I thought it was a prerequisite of the date and you panicked and wanted to know what I was doing.”

The hard line of Martin’s mouth, softens. Just a little.

“Then you spilled coffee on my lap in that shitty cafe we went to on the second one and I said it wasn’t that hot but it… was. Very hot. On the… sensitive bits.”

“You–” Martin starts, and then stops, eyes widening like he expects… like he expects Jon to turn into a horrible monster and berate him for _ responding. _ Like it’ll make the hallucination fall apart again.

When it doesn’t, Martin sags, reaching out to touch him. “You said it wasn’t that bad…” he says, pathetically, and Jon pulls him into a hug.

_I had other things on my mind at the time, _ he doesn’t say. _ I’d take it a hundred times over _this.

Martin isn’t letting go of him, and Jon– sad, angry, scared, _ curious– _well, he's never been good at withholding a question.

“What did you see…?” he ventures, as Martin holds him tight and even tighter still, then, as he Jon asks.

Martin buries his face in Jon’s neck and breathes. “I saw you die,” he mumbles. “Over and over.”

Jon doesn’t think it’ll help to mention, but… “I saw the same thing of you.”

Martin’s breath catches, but he stubbornly pushes through.

Jon squeezes him gently, and, for once, relishes in reality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well this ended up being similar to the lonely huh "are you real"
> 
> your Jon'll always come to rescue you, Martin......


	23. bleeding out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> end notes for content warnings

“No, no, no, no, no no no–”

This was inevitable.

Martin knows. They’re living in a horror show; they’d lost Tim and Sasha so long ago, Daisy was _ completely _ gone this time, Basira… Basira’s not even Basira anymore, and Jon… Jon had been Beholding for so long that Martin would have had to have been an idiot not to see this end coming.

Doesn’t make it any better. Doesn’t make it any easier– 

“Jon, please– _ please _ don’t–” He can’t breathe, but he’s somehow managing to speak. He’s not… God, he doesn’t know. He thinks all of their time just… _ existing _ has numbed him to this, a little. Or maybe it’s just because he had spent so much time in The Lonely. Or maybe because he’s known, for a long while, that they were all going to die in the end. “Hold on–”

Jon isn’t awake. He doesn’t know if he can hear him. Maybe it’s better that he isn’t awake. If Jon was talking to him, he probably wouldn’t be able to keep it together like he is. Maybe he’s just… mostly sensible right now _ because _ Jon’s quiet and Martin’s holding him against his chest and trying to bandage the bleeding wounds and it just… he feels so far away from it all that he isn’t dissolving to tears yet.

He doesn’t think he will, either. If… If Jon dies this time, Martin… he isn’t going on, either. He won’t live as the last one standing. He knows what it’s like to be alone. And it hurts too bad, too much sadness and guilt, and he isn’t… he isn’t that selfless, when it comes to himself. If Jon’s bleeding out here, Martin is too.

Still. He isn’t giving up yet. Jon’s still breathing. Martin is too.

“I’ll stay with you, don’t worry– don’t– don’t worry about that, Jon,” he mutters, pressing harder, holding tighter. “I promise… I promise I’ve got you.”

For what it’s worth now, but Martin always has.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> character death wip, slight suicide ideation
> 
> thinkin bout Martin being the last one standing though... that survivors guilt..... 😩
> 
> anyway I'm even more behind, was frantically jumpstarting the mid phase of our tma zine so I! needed a break!!! and I was behind anyway so what difference does it make lmfao


	24. secret injury

_ He’s going to die. _

Jon shakes The Beholding’s determination away, physically jerking his head at the  _ constant _ reminder. It isn’t funny. It isn’t  _ fair. _ They’re  _ both _ going to die if he doesn’t figure this out, anyway.

“Come on, Martin,” he urges.

“Y–Yeah.”

They continue, and The Beholding stays insistent in his head. Jon ignores it.

Then Martin loses his footing, and has to grab Jon’s shoulder to keep himself upright and, in that moment, he sees a shock of red against Martin’s taupe jumper and–

“Oh, shit, Martin,” he breathes, and makes a grab for Martin’s hoodie.

“No, nonono– I’m fine,” Martin blurts, trying to pull away.

_ “Martin–” _ He tugs the hoodie open, blanches at the dark red stain. “Martin– you– why didn’t you–”

“I’m not  _ dying,” _ Martin says, a little frantic, as he tries to slip away. “It’s just– it just–  _ hurts, _ yeah, okay, but I can– I can keep going–”

“Martin…”

_ He will die. _

Christ! He hadn’t been  _ listening! _

“It’s still  _ bleeding,” _ he says, and pats at his pockets. “We can– we have to stop–”

“No–”

“Martin,  _ stop.” _

Martin jerks to a halt, as Jon holds onto his wrist and the compulsion trembles and settles across the room like a thick layer of smoke and ash.

“S–Sorry,” Jon stammers, and lets go. Martin’s breathing hard, whether from the force of The Beholding or the pain. “You just… we have to bind it better, Martin. Then we can keep going.”

It isn’t… severe, he doesn’t think. Not enough to kill him immediately, anyway. The Beholding agrees, now that it’s tried and failed to use its shock tactics to make him See. (Besides, if he  _ hadn’t _ noticed, then it would have gotten to a point where Martin might have… passed out, and… God, Jon doesn’t want to think about it.) 

“… okay,” Martin murmurs, and looks so  _ defeated _ that Jon feels bad for… he doesn’t know,  _ noticing, _ which is stupid, considering. “Sorry…”

“Don’t apologize,” Jon says immediately, looking about the room for  _ something _ to use. “You don’t have to. It’s not– it’s not like you asked to be hurt.  _ I  _ should be the one apologizing,” he mutters, and Martin interrupts, just as quick.

“No. You didn’t do it and– and I followed you. I’m  _ sorry, _ Jon. We just… should keep going, because wasting time here–”

“Not wasting time,” Jon says quickly, and hands over someone’s forgotten scarf from the coat rack. “Here. Just sort of– lift your shirt up, and–” He makes a vague gesture, and tries not to stammer when Martin’s face tinges pink. “I can… just let me know, if you need help.” It’s probably the path of least resistance, letting Martin do it himself. “I’m… I’m going to try and get a signal here.” They both know he won’t.

“O–Okay,” Martin mumbles. “T… Thank you.”

_ Don’t be ridiculous, _ he wants to say, because it isn’t a big deal and Martin doesn’t seem to  _ get it… _ but then, Jon knows that’s not a beneficial thing to say, just then. So, “not a problem,” he says instead, and gives a tiny smile as he turns his back to fidget instead with his phone again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> he's slowly bleeding out, but sure boys, go ahead and blush about an exposed tummy <strike>god I love them</strike>


	25. humiliation

Martin flinches when Jon approaches him, and he hurriedly holds up both hands and watches him. Apprehensive. Scared, a bit. “Martin…”

“Don’t  _ talk _ to me,” Martin mutters, wrapping his arms around himself. “Don’t look at me…”

In retrospect, Jon  _ understands _ why Martin is…  _ humiliated, _ every dark secret of his pulled from the most forgotten corner of his brain and put to light. But Jon doesn’t care. He doesn’t  _ care. _ As long as Martin is alright… it doesn’t matter. His secrets don’t matter.

Well okay, they  _ do, _ but now as far as how Jon sees him.

“Martin, I don’t  _ care _ about your secrets,” he says, slightly impatient. And then, trying again, he stoops down more to Martin’s level and starts again. “I mean, I  _ do, _ and I’m  _ sorry, _ Martin, I’m sorry it was… it was all used against you.” Martin withdraws, and Jon hurriedly pushes on. “But that’s  _ okay, _ if you– if you think things or  _ do _ things or… or don’t. Everybody’s got secrets.  _ I’ve  _ got secrets,” he adds. “Did you want to hear mine?”

Not that he’s particularly… keen on that. But it’s  _ fair; _ he’d stood here while Martin had had to listen to his worst secrets plucked out and laid bare. So… an eye for an eye– oh, probably best not use that phrase, here.

_ “No,” _ Martin says immediately, and looks stricken. “No! Just because  _ I _ had to–”

“Sorry, it was– that– that was a bad idea–”

“Just because  _ I _ go through trauma, doesn’t mean  _ you _ need to one-up it,” Martin snaps, and then, softer, “God, sorry, I’m just… I’m still so glad it was me. And… and not you. But I’m… I’m not even I sure want to leave after that, ha–”

“Martin… This doesn’t change anything.”

“It  _ does. _ It will.”

“It won’t,” Jon retorts. “Look who you’re talking to. It’s me. I’m not… I’m not the rest of them. I’m just… me,” he finishes pathetically, but he just… he won’t  _ use _ this against Martin, see him different or bring it up. He just  _ won’t. _

Martin, in the moment, seems to… realize that a bit. His face softens, and he manages a minuscule smile. “Maybe… maybe.”

“I promise,” he swears. “Come on, Martin. We have to go back. I’m not going without you.”

He seems to laugh, just for a second, and then… wipes his eyes, and lets Jon help him back to his feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could honestly not think of any one sfw humiliation situation to detail so feel to plug details for yourself on exactly ~what went down (at the very least, Martin's got No secrets any longer)


	26. abandoned

_ He’s abandoning you. _

_ He’s  _ ** _not,_ ** Martin snaps back, and shoves his hands in his pockets and keeps  _ walking. _ He can’t see Jon, or hear him, but he knows…  _ knows _ he’s there. He can feel the press of eyes all around him, and while he doesn’t think all of them are  _ Jon, _ he knows he’s at least partially… keeping an eye out. Watching over him.

_ Not _ abandoning him, he says sourly, to the inner voice that’s trying to get him to doubt everything he knows and believes about Jon. And besides, his inner voice sounds like a mixture between Peter and Elias, and he doesn’t want to listen to either of them, anymore.

_ He won’t abandon me. _

Not this time. Not in this place. Jon had walked into  _ The Lonely _ for him. Whether or not that was… whether or not that was because of a reason Martin  _ hoped _ it was, or something else, it… it doesn’t even matter. The  _ why _ hadn’t mattered, and it still doesn’t. Because, whatever the reason, Jon had  _ done it. _ For  _ him. _

So, he won’t abandon him now.

He has to trust him.

He shivers in the cold, and keeps walking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hadestown vibes yalllllll


End file.
